


Please

by henghost



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: F/F, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 04:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21440446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henghost/pseuds/henghost
Summary: After a strangely realistic dream, Victoria discovers a new addiction.
Relationships: Victoria Dallon | Glory Girl/Wretch
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	Please

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: short and not super serious. Heavily inspired by Chapter 6 of tkjarrah's "Why?" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931863/chapters/50444759)

All my dreams take place in the past, the asylum being the most common locale, (the obvious symbolism of which probably isn’t worth mentioning) and they’re always well-lit and hyperrealistic and nauseating. They can be nice, though, when the right people are involved. Sometimes I’ll be back in Brockton Bay and I’ll be with Dean or someone similar (i.e. someone safe), and for those few hours it feels like everything’s alright and that it always will be. Of course, these are the worst kind to wake up from.

So it makes sense that this all began — as parahuman bullshit is wont — in one of those nice dreams, when my guard was down, when any shred of comfort wasn’t only tolerable but necessary.

I can remember it in vivid detail: In Dean’s old room at the Wards HQ, tangled together. And we’re making out and our hands are grabbing and groping at each other. And things progress until I’m half-dressed under him, and then further, and then further — I won’t get any more graphic than that.

I’ve had this kind of dream before like everyone else, but this specific instance was different. More physical, more real, like I could actually feel him inside me. In other words:  _ incredible _ . And it was in fact so visceral and real-feeling that as I came, the shock and following cascade of bliss ripped me from sleep and tossed me out onto the (damp) bed.

The strange thing was, the sensation didn’t stop. It felt like Dean was still going at it, so to speak, which was confusing and pretty frightening, to say the least, and so I jumped to my feet and by the orange light from the streetlamp outside I could see the ghostly shimmer of the Wretch retracting one of its many hands from between my thighs. I got control of it and switched it off.

After a period of stunned stupor, the cape-geek mind switched into gear — better that than consider the psychological and potentially philosophical implications of what had just happened, after all. What did it mean? Was it simply that my agent was free from the paralysis of sleep the rest of my body was under, and was instructed by my subconscious to make my dreams come true, as it were? Or was it acting independently? Did it have its own unknowable motivations for wanting me come in my sleep? 

This series of thoughts went uninterrupted for longer than I care to admit, and I’ll spare you the details, because it was an ultimately meaningless thought experiment. Trying to get at the motives of something literally inhuman was an exercise in futility.

Even though I made myself stop thinking about it, the experience replayed in my head unbidden throughout the day. And there was no denying the sheer physical satisfaction I’d received that morning. I noticed a lack of tension in my muscles, I brushed things off that might’ve irritated me before. I even caught myself entertaining fantasies of the attractive cashier who was a little flirty and whose hand touched mine when handing me my grocery bag. Very odd.

#

That night, at home with the lights out, I decided to do some research into the morning’s phenomenon. It was difficult to search for information online, as one might expect. “Parahuman sleep walking” and “power use while asleep” only returned totally inscrutable research papers that as far as I could tell seemed to focus on interference with REM-cycles and that kind of thing, which wasn’t helpful at all for my situation.

Of course, searches on the other end of the spectrum (e.g., “cape wet dreams” “parahuman dream sex”) gave me predictably pornographic results. The internet’s infrastructure was a shell of its former self, except for porn, which had only grown in quantity since Gold Morning, in my estimation. I checked out a few of the videos, purely for research purposes. 

There was one of a woman who spoke Russian masturbating with self-created fiery rods (not a euphemism). There was a series of videos from a sex-toy tinker showing off their wares, complete with demonstration. There was a compilation video of one man ejaculating onto vaguely female-looking ceramic dolls who screamed high-pitched protests at him afterwards. None that could really compare to my earlier experience.

The conclusion I reached was that my situation was totally unique, which meant it was up to me to perform my own experiments. And there was only one way to test if the Wretch had been fucking me autonomously, if it was  _ attracted  _ to me. 

I took my clothes off, checked that the door was locked, and lay spread-eagle on my bed. Then I willed to Wretch to appear. The bed creaked but didn’t break, thank God, and I heard a smack against the headboard. Around me, indentations in the mattress formed a crude outline of my many-headed companion. 

It sounds silly now, but I began by trying to “entice” it. Very, very carefully — this was a forcefield with brute-strength — I willed a single finger on one of the countless arms to touch the inside of my thigh. Success. It felt like something between plastic and flesh. Next I tried movement, having its finger go up and down the length of my labia, which tickled at first but began to feel (strangely) nice after a while. Smooth and temperature-less, like a thick wall of air.

Now here came the real test. I spoke to it in a low, humming voice, “Is that, I don’t know… do you like that?”

Nothing.

“I caught you this morning, remember? I know you’re capable. I know you, like, want it.” 

Still nothing.

“Okay, look, it’s obviously kind of embarrassing to admit, but  _ I  _ want it, too. I mean, you and I’ve been companions for so long now, and I’ve always kind of hated you, even when we’ve been on the same page, but this morning was so indescribably incredible. I didn’t even realize how long I’d needed something like that. Seriously, if you’re listening, if you can understand what I’m saying…  _ please _ .”

What happened next was like a hallucination so intense it couldn’t fit in my mind, like I was seeing something I wasn’t supposed to. I saw her, the Wretch. Not physically, not in a body, but as something abstract and ineffable and beautiful. 

And before I could even begin to get a grip on what was happening, my brain gave up on trying to show me my partner and shot me back into my fleshy body, which was convulsing —  _ I _ was convulsing — around the impossibly hard surface of the Wretch’s fingers (yes, plural) which were inside me and moving in more than three dimensions, if that makes any sense, and I began to hover in midair, and I couldn’t say whether it was me or  _ her  _ doing it, and she spread my legs further apart and used several of her other hands to massage at my most sensitive points — nipples, neck, lips, thighs, the small of my back — until the pleasure, which felt like something liquid inside me, began to expand too rapidly to contain (I mean, how much time had passed? Ten seconds? Five?) and I exploded into a shivering, writhing mess of limbs and hair, at which point I floated gently back to the mattress and fell (instantly) into a dreamless black pit.

#

The next few days were unproductive. I called Sveta and told her I was sick, and I used the free time to explore my (was it really mine, though?) newfound ability. 

The first thing I learned was that her comings and goings, at least in the capacity of sexual partner, were impossible to control. I could be begging for minutes or hours. She fucked me when  _ she  _ pleased and no sooner. Still, all that time wasted was worth it. There were no words to describe the pure ecstasy she could induce in me. “Orgasm” feels like a gross understatement.

I built up my stamina over time until I could withstand up to an hour of being locked in her current of limbs before I passed out, which I always did, in the end. My vision went white during these sessions. Time passed without my knowledge or consent. And when I woke up, I would find myself covered in dried fluids of an indeterminable origin, but I didn’t bathe, as that would take up time I could’ve spent pleading ( _ pleading!) _ , over and over, for her return. 

Once a day — what felt like a day, at least — I would force myself to eat a meal and drink a liter of water. That was enough, I thought, to replenish what I had lost and to allow me to continue for another twenty-four hours or so. Otherwise, it was sleep or begging for her or being with her.

#

It was the first time she choked me. Riding the high of the touch of her airy hands lifting me up, make me feel like  _ that _ , I almost didn’t notice the spectral hand around my throat. Who knows how long I was without oxygen, but at some point a biological failsafe kicked in and the adrenaline overrode the pleasure, and I forced her to let me down.

Somebody said, “Uh, hey?” and I whipped around to find Sveta standing at my bedside, and I scrambled to cover myself as blood rushed to my face. 

“Oh,” I said.

“What the fuck was just going on,” she said. “I can’t begin to process what I just saw.”

“Um, ha ha, it’s kind of embarrassing.”

“Oh. Really?”

I told her about the dream, the first attempt, how good it felt.

“So you weren’t ever sick? You just stayed home and had sex with your forcefield? Can you even call it sex?”

“Are you mad?”

“Why would I be mad? It’s not like I’ve spent my whole life being denied the experience of physical intimacy by my power. Why would I be mad that you can experience quote-unquote ‘otherworldly’ pleasure because of yours? Why would I be mad that I’ve lost my best friend to the sexual prowess of a fucking alien?”

“Sveta, really, it’s not like that. I’m sorry. I’ve been really irresponsible. Please, let me make it up to you.”

“Okay, so you’re willing to keep it in your pants for a while and come, I don’t know, help people with your team? Seriously, there’s stuff to do.”

I hesitated. Was I willing? Each second passing felt like a punch to the gut, and I realized it was because it was a second away from her. And I was going to tell Sveta this, but then, as if answering for me, the Wretch took a swing at her, throwing her against the back wall. The impact sent plaster flying.

Apparently unhurt, she stood with her mouth open, her arms unfurling into countless tentacles like she was getting ready to fight, and she said, “I’ll take that as a no, then.” And she raced out of the room.

I thought about running after her and explaining or apologizing, but I didn’t. Instead, I knelt on the floor and took up my familiar refrain: “Please, please,  _ please _ .” 


End file.
